


Worst. Birthday. Ever.

by Samayla



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Reader-Insert, Team Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:16:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28386129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samayla/pseuds/Samayla
Summary: It's your birthday, and you get to spend it in a firefight on an alien world.Tumblr Anon requested a reader-insert fic featuring a gruff-but-sweet Jack and someone's birthday.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Worst. Birthday. Ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Y/N - your name  
> L/N - your last name

“Worst. Birthday. Ever,” you gasp as you duck behind a fallen pillar.

Another few rounds of P90 fire go off overhead before Colonel O’Neill drops down beside you to reload. “Come on now,” he quips. “Surely you’ve had worse. What about college?” He pops up to fire off another handful of shots, then ducks hastily as the stone next to you explodes in the energy blast that answers his volley. You both slide down a little lower, just in case. “Surely there’s some legendary drunken escapade that tops this mess?”

“If there is,” you pant, trying and failing to reload your own gun, “I was too drunk to remember it.” 

“Carter, how’s it coming? I’d love to go home right about now!”

“Three minutes, Colonel,” she shouts back from the far side of the DHD, where she is trying to recalibrate it to send the IDC signal to unlock the iris. 

O’Neill peeks around the pillar and then ducks away from another energy blast. “I’ll give you two! L/N, you out?”

You try to reload again, but you just can’t seem to get the stupid magazine to lock into place. “Mag’s jammed.”

“Daniel! Give her a hand! Teal’c, cover him!”

Suddenly, Daniel is at your side, hands over yours, and then he’s shouting. “Jack, she’s bleeding!”

Alarmed, you lean out, trying to get a look at Carter, but then Daniel is everywhere — shoving you back against the pillar again, batting your hands away, lifting the P90 strap over your head, bracing a hand against your suddenly aching shoulder — and you realize it’s you. You’re bleeding. In the midst of a dozen other, smaller cuts, there is a shard of stone piercing your shoulder, right through your jacket. You feel dizzy.

“Shit,” the colonel curses. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“It doesn’t hurt, sir,” you offer, mildly confused about that fact, but grateful for it. It looks like it should hurt more than this dull, distant ache. You try to take your gun from Daniel again, to cover your teammates in this firefight, but you can’t quite make your hand obey, and it occurs to you that this is why you couldn’t reload. 

This is bad.

“One minute, Carter,” O’Neill shouts. “We have wounded.” 

“One minute,” she confirms. “Nearly there!”

“Jack, give me a hand.” Daniel pulls the strap off your P90 and folds your arm up.

O’Neill drops his gun and presses your hand over the shard in your shoulder, and you grunt at the first bolt of real pain. “L/N, look at me. You hang onto this,” he says firmly. “As long as it’s plugging the hole, you aren’t leaking. There’ll be no bleeding out on your birthday, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” You gasp as Daniel tightens the strap around your chest to hold your arm in place, but then everything seems to speed up. Daniel shoves a zat into your good hand, and Carter is shouting, and O’Neill is bellowing into his radio, and you’re running — or at least someone is. You’re pretty sure it isn’t you at this point. You’re too focused on hanging onto that shard of stone and breathing through the pain as you’re jostled along at someone’s side, shooting at anything that moves, determined not to be a liability. Then you are on the ramp, and your shoulder is absolutely killing you, and there are guns everywhere, and someone is replacing Teal’c at your side - though when he’d gotten there in the first place, you have no idea. Dr. Frasier is prying the zat out of your death grip, and everything is just a little bit slippery, just a little bit surreal as you’re loaded onto a gurney, and the rest of your team is hustled off in another direction entirely. 

  
“How does that feel, Y/N?” Janet asks, adjusting your sling slightly to better support your shoulder. She’s got you all put back together and bandaged up, but you still feel absolutely wrung-out.

“Better, Janet. Thanks.” You offer up a watery half-smile, the best you can manage.

“None of that now,” she scolds softly. “I see from your chart it’s your birthday.”

You chuckle bitterly. “I think I’d rather skip this year and pretend it never happened.”

“Now that is not what I want to hear,” Colonel O’Neill declares as he strides into the infirmary with Teal’c and Daniel in tow. “A death-defying firefight, a harrowing escape, all the good drugs in the aftermath… what’s not to like?”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “What he means to say is, how’s the arm, Y/N?”

You barely stop yourself from shrugging. “Good enough for government work,” you quip, hoping that will be good enough. 

O’Neill barks out a laugh. “You know, as a tax-paying American citizen, that’s not a real comfort, but I do appreciate the spunk, L/N.”

“I do what I can, sir.” In truth, you feel ready to fly apart at the seams. Tired, embarrassed, frustrated, disappointed… You’re sure you’ll feel glad to be alive later, but for now, you just wish it was any other day, as if the rest of it would be somehow easier to handle if it wasn’t happening on this particular day.

“As do we all,” Teal’c intones gently, seemingly sensing your fragile mood. “I, too, am glad to see you are well.” 

“Yes, well, since you’ve got a doctor’s note, the rest of us have a debriefing in ten, and then!” O’Neill grins. “Then, the birthday party to end all birthday parties!”

You aren’t sure if the grandiose declaration makes you want to laugh or cry. “Sounds ominous,” you comment carefully, struggling to get your raw emotions under control. You aren’t in the mood for partying, but you don’t want to ruin the gesture either.

“Nah,” O’Neill says, sitting beside you on the bed and giving your good hand a squeeze. “No booze, or the doc’ll have my head, and no cake because Teal’c’s a terrible baker, but we did liberate several gallons of green jello from the commissary. We have permission from the general to use the VIP suite — they have the comfiest couch, don’t ya know — and Carter’s currently negotiating with Siler for his copy of Mary Poppins and a case of rootbeer. 1919. Very good year.”

“Mary Poppins,” Daniel says skeptically. “That’s your big surprise?”

At your side, the colonel nods solemnly. “Mary Poppins.”

Teal’c cocks his head. “What is a merry poppin?”

You can’t help a giggle at the absurdity of the question, of the whole situation. “Mary Poppins.”

“She’s a who, not a what,” the colonel explains, “and I think she’s just the sort of who we need tonight.” He turns back to you and hands you a tissue without comment. “Now, Y/N, you get some rest and just enjoy all those good meds for a bit.” He gives you a one-armed hug and kisses your hair as he stands. “I’ll come bust you out of here once we’re done with the general, and then we’ll see what a spoonful of sugar can do about improving this whole birthday situation. Deal?”

You smile helplessly, but your face feels wet, and you realize you’re crying too. You wipe your eyes with the tissue, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude. “Deal.”

He nods with a proud smile and begins herding the others out of the infirmary.

“Jack?” you call as he reaches the door. He glances over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

He just smiles again. “Happy birthday.”


End file.
